


Roses Made of Blood

by 525MillionAnts_Robbing_a_Bank (SuspiciouslyIntelligentUndeadBumblebee)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Roses, Self-Harm, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-30
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-16 00:54:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14801243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuspiciouslyIntelligentUndeadBumblebee/pseuds/525MillionAnts_Robbing_a_Bank
Summary: Midnight, roses, ringing phones, blood, and stars.What if flowers bloomed from the spot where your soulmate was wounded?





	Roses Made of Blood

The clock has not yet struck midnight when it happens again. 

It starts with an itch, a slight tingle that he doesn’t even notice. Then, suddenly, splitting pain across his wrist. He sits up abruptly, nearly tugging his earbuds out, and glances down at his forearms. 

Soft green vines, barely thinner than toothpicks, are bursting through the pale skin. As he watches, they grow as if in time-lapse, thickening and curling around each other, tiny thorns puckering along the surface, delicate pods—flower buds—forming at the tips of the stems. 

He can’t move, can’t tear his sleepy eyes away. His heart beats faster with every new leaf that unfurls. His voice is faint and wobbly as he mutters, almost unintentionally, “No, stop, please stop, not again…” In his mind, the words float out the window, to some other bedroom far away, where another boy lies dying on the floor. In his mind, whispered words meet lonely ears, and bloody hands drag a weak body to wherever help can be found. But reality stings as the flowers continued to push past his veins, green peeling back to reveal roses red as the blood spilling from the wrists of a child in a room far away.

He hits the hardwood floors and breaks into a clumsy sprint, holding his stinging wrists in front of him as if the distance will keep the reality from hitting. Delicate young blossoms are crushed in between soft skin and hard plastic as he scrambles for the old corded house phone, but he doesn’t notice, doesn’t care, as he jabs frantically at the numbered pads. Ringing fills his ears for less than a second before a smooth, infuriatingly calm voice comes from the other end of the line. He can’t even hear them, understand what they are saying. The flowers should have stopped by now, the pain should be gone, normally it is over long before this, and oh God, that must mean— he must be—

“He’s going to die, oh God, he’s killing himself, oh please help me help me,” he blubbers into the receiver, not caring that he is making absolutely no sense and that he has no information that could possibly help. His legs give out and he slides to the floor, the chill tile sending shivers through his body as flowering rose bushes continue to grow around him, caging him in a grotesque picture frame of life and blood. All the feelings of the real world, the cold stone beneath him, the thorns poking every strip of bare skin, the music still playing softly through earbuds he has yet to remove, are drowned out by the deafening silence of his slowly breaking heart. He is faintly aware of the voice speaking through the phone he still clenches in his hands, of how white his knuckles look against the deep crimson petals. For just a second, he can imagine it is his blood spilling from cut veins, staining the grout between the tiles and the pale cotton of his nightshirt. As the stars continue to cycle overhead, he whispers into the void, “Please, I can’t take this anymore. Just make it stop.”

Somewhere, many miles away, a grandfather clock chimes the hour, and a lonely little heart stills.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a weird shitty thing I wrote at literally midnight last night. When I woke up this morning, I figured, "Hey, it's bad anyway so it's not like anyone's going to steal it. Also, it's really short." Not even an original prompt: I saw a thing on Tumblr about, what if flowers grew from the place where your soulmate was wounded?


End file.
